We’re down to our last few days in Paris and we’re trying to decide which sights on our remaining list we’re going to see and which will have to wait for our next visit to this lovely city. In, like, 20 years, because our list of places we’re going to visit is insanely long.
What’s left: Musee Rodin, L’Hotel des Invalides, and the Catacombs. The Catacombs seem to involve a ridiculously long wait or forking over a fee for a “skip the line” tour, so it’s not looking good for the Catacombs.
The Rodin Museum is at the top of both of our lists, so that seems like a lock.
But we’ll see.
The Rock Stars of Impressionism
A couple of days ago we checked out the Musee D’Orsay, which was near the top of our list not only because it was recommended to us by so many friends, but it was clearly one of the best museums to visit according to what a friend of mine calls “Dudes On The Internet”, or “DOTI” for short.
Both our friends and DOTI knew what they were talking about.
We were a bit tired on Wednesday (I don’t remember why but hell, I can always check the blog to see what we were doing then) but we sucked it up, buttercup, and headed out. Juliann had checked ahead of time and the Musee D’Orsee, like the Louvre, provided strollers free of charge so that meant that Daddy and Braeden wouldn’t be fighting it out by noon in the middle of a crowd of art lovers.
Upon entering the museum we resisted the urge to head right for the buffet of Monets, Manets, Renoirs, Gaugins, Pisarros, Seurats, and Van Goghs that we knew were waiting for us and just took a moment to stare.
The Musee D’Orsay was a train station before someone with vision and a wicked huge brain decided to turn it into a museum, and it’s just a stunning building.
I have no idea how much it cost and it really doesn’t matter because I didn’t pay for it, but whatever the price it was worth it.
And of course, the art was amazing. We took an hour or two to soak up so many delightful works by Rodin, Degas, Monet, Manet, Renoir, Gaugin, Seurat, and Pisarro.
[I’d never really paid much attention to Pisarro, but after our trip to the Musee D’Orsay I’m now a huge fan. Plus he had an amazeballs beard.]
If we stopped there we would have felt so lucky to have been able to see such amazing, once-in-a-lifetime art.
But we weren’t finished. We walked into a room on the 2nd floor and saw the works of the master. Van Gogh.
His self portrait, the beautiful and haunting “Church at Auvers”, the deeply moving “Starry Night Over the Rhone”, (we didn’t realize there are a few different versions of “Starry Night”, which was something Van Gogh worked on for awhile – the famous “Starry Night” hanging in MoMA is gorgeous, but we liked “Over the Rhone” even better), and the dissonant “Chaumes de Cordeville at Auvers-sur-Oise” were like candy.
No, better than candy. Like freshly blended chocolate shakes. With homemade whipped cream. Topped with candied bacon.
I know that last bit got the attention of my CrossFit friends. Yes, the paintings were that good.
The room in which his work was displayed was crowded as all hell but we hung out for as long as we could. The boy was also getting hungry, so the clock was ticking and we finally, reluctantly left one of the most satisfying museums we’ve ever visited.
But Van Gogh’s colors and swirls are still haunting us. We can’t wait to see some of his work again.
After we left the museum we grabbed some lunch at a boulangerie/sandwich place just a few blocks away. We got a ham and cheese sandwich for Braeden and a “kabob chicken” sandwich for me, which turned out to be some very tasty spiced chicken on a baguette. Juliann had her usual pain-au-chocolat, which I haven’t sampled since our first week here.
I really should make sure I have another one before we leave France in September. And some macarons. Friends keep insisting I have to try the macarons (which look nothing like macaroons, BTW) so I need to get on it.
Anyway, Braeden wanted nothing to do with his ham and cheese but thought my chicken sandwich was interesting, so I shared it with him while we all enjoyed some quality people-watching.
After lunch we sprung a surprise on the boy and told him we were going for ice cream at Berthillion, our favorite glace spot. He immediately perked up and got that crazy gleam in his eye, and we hopped a bus and headed for Ile-Saint-Louis.
But this story has a tragic ending, folks. BERTHILLION WAS CLOSED!
Our good friend Ralph had warned us that Berthillion closed for the month of August, so like good little planners we made sure we could visit one or two more times before the end of the month.
But here in France everything is a little “we fly by the seat of your pants, eh?” so they were closed. On July 27th. We were crushed.
But being the intrepid travelers we are, we sucked it up, buttercup, and walked down the street to a restaurant selling Berthillion ice cream (there are at least a dozen on Ile-Saint-Louis, but IT’S NOT THE SAME, DAMMIT!) and ordered some boules.
Braeden, predictably, got raspberry in a cup, while Juliann got some more of the heavenly rum raisin, called “creole”. I had wanted to try the roasted pineapple basil (yeah, I thought “who dreams that shit up for an ice cream flavor?” too, but after a couple of visits I realized these people know what the hell they’re doing and decided I would eat cricket-flavored ice cream if they sold it) but the restaurant didn’t carry it so I settled for the salted caramel and butter.
Mine wasn’t bad. Juliann’s creole was to die for, just like last time. And of course Braeden was licking the inside of the cup for the last few drops of raspberry about 20 minutes later. Mission accomplished.
Parc de Jeux
Thursday we were toast from our day at the museum and our hunt for ice cream so we opted for an easy day: breakfast, some quality Lego time, a haircut for Mommy, and a few hours at the Parc de Jeux.
“Parc de Jeux” is roughly “playground” in French, and we’ve resorted to using it around the house to discuss our plans. Fellow parents know that you don’t under any circumstances tell the child about upcoming fun stuff because you’ll hear about it for the rest of the day until there’s a trickle of blood coming from your eardrums.
So we’ve resorted to describing the aforementioned fun stuff in French. We used to do it in Spanish, but he quickly figured out what area de juegos and la piscina meant. It’s a full-on arms race but at least he’s learning some words in other languages. He’s going to be really pissed off when we start in with Thai and Vietnamese.
After breakfast we headed over to Elea, which as far as we can tell is a slightly nicer French version of SuperCuts, where M. Claudio, whom we adore, could cut Juliann’s hair.
It was a bit stressful for me because Claudio doesn’t speak any English and, as chief translator, I knew it was my responsibility to make sure my wife’s haircut went well. Or else.
So I spent some quality time with Google Translate looking up such phrases as “long layers”, “dead ends”, and “keep the length the same”. But we needn’t worry. Claudio did a fantastic job on Juliann’s hair just as he did with mine and Braeden’s, and we left happy customers.
Then we headed over to the playground, where Braeden immediately headed for the zipline.
The zipline is turning out to be a good character exercise for both Juliann and I, as there’s usually a line and our son is a daydreamer like his Dad. Those two things combined result in a lot of kids cutting in front of him, and since he’s more often than not the smallest kid in line, we find our “someone’s f**king with my kid” alarms going off frequently.
We try to ignore it and let things happen, but usually we end up standing a few feet away playing Line Police. To be fair, we’re never the only parents doing this. But I’m making it a personal goal to go to the playground, let other kids cut in front of my boy, and let him figure it out.
The urge to be a Dragon Mother is strong, though. If we call you asking for bail money in Euros it’s probably because I gave Atomic Wedgies to a couple of 7-year-olds that cut my kid in line. Don’t judge, just send the money.
We all ended up being particularly tired very early on Thursday, so we left the playground, made some lunch at home, and took a nap. Then we did some shopping for an early dinner (we had “Daddy’s Chicken”, which is really my best shot at chicken piccata) and then met our AirBnB host for a drink at Place de la Sorbonne.
Our host, Stephane, is a very cool guy. He’s in his late forties to early fifties, has an adorable mop of salt-and-pepper (mostly salt) hair, and he’s every inch what you would expect a Frenchman to be.
And my wife has a crush on him. I don’t blame her. He’s got a great accent and he’s a handsome dude.
We grabbed a table at a cafe on Place de la Sorbonne with him, had a few drinks, and shot the breeze. We discovered we were both sailors and talked about various sailing spots (he was much more experienced than I) and he shared with us that he was leaving in a few days for a 3-week charter off the Brittany coast.
What was supposed to be one beer turned into a two-hour conversation. We eventually, regretfully, said goodbye and let the boy run wild around the fountains for a bit, then returned to our apartment to crash.
If you’re ever in Paris make sure to stay at Stephane’s AirBnB. He’s a great host with a great home.
Fat Tire
Today we scheduled another guided tour, this time on bicycles with Fat Tire Tours, which was highly rated on TripAdvisor. Plus they seemed like fun folks.
Fat Tire was easy to find and we showed up at 10:15 for our 10:30 tour. The staff, which seemed to be 90% American college-aged kids, were well-trained and clearly enjoyed their jobs. They got us set up on bikes, we took last-minute bathroom breaks, and we were on our way.
Braeden chilled in a little sidecar trailer behind my bike and he was in heaven. He could see the sights, he had his snacks with him, and he could ask me and Juliann the usual million questions. We thought maybe he wouldn’t be happy that he didn’t get a bike of his own, but it turned out he preferred to be chauffeured around by Dad.
It was a perfect day and the tour was excellent. We got to cruise around the ancient streets of Paris on bikes and got some background and fun details on sights we’d already seen.
We finished the tour at the Eiffel Tower, where we learned that Gustave Eiffel, who agreed to pay for part of the tower’s construction in exchange for rights to admission fees for 20 years, made his money back in the first six months. He ended up a pretty rich guy.
We left Fat Tire after grabbing a couple of sweet t-shirts and headed home. I had to turn right around and head to the gym while J put the boy down for his nap, and after a great workout (my fifth or sixth tilt at “The Chief”) I returned home and we had leftovers for dinner.
Wednesday we check out of our apartment here in Paris and take a rental car to Normandy, where we’ll be for four days to tour the D-Day beaches and check out Mont Saint-Michel.
We’ve booked a guided tour for the D-Day sites, but we’re planning on taking on Mont Saint-Michel on our own, so if you have recommendations for things to see while we’re there, please let us know.
Thanks, Jamie, for the info. We’re looking forward to the souffles at La Mere Poulard!
Unfortunately, I’ve never been to Paris, so can’t help you there, but I’m fascinated with excursions! Be safe!